Cruel Love
by BittersweetBirdsong
Summary: "Between the tears, the white liquor, and my conversation with Haymitch I am incapable of thinking straight." Alternate ending to chapter 13 of Catching Fire in which Katniss goes to Peeta's house instead of returning home. Written for Prompts in Panem.


The door slams behind me as I step out into the night, drinking large amounts of cool air. The sharp bite of the wind feels nice against my skin. After spending an hour in Haymitch's filth, the fresh oxygen is a welcome guest.

I'm still not wearing any shoes as I stumble across the moisture sodden ground, but I can't find a reason to care. Sure, I could catch a cold, but what the hell? I'm going back to the arena, the place of living nightmares. Any amount of self-preservation would be a waste of time.

I pause to look at the moon which is thinly veiled behind a cloud. What do I do now? Between the tears, the white liquor, and my conversation with Haymitch, I am incapable of thinking straight. What I do know is that Haymitch and I promised to keep Peeta safe. My purpose is complete, or it will be once I die in the arena. Now all I have to do is wait. In the meantime, I should go comfort Prim and my mother with empty promises of how everything is going to be okay. But I can't bring myself to face them now, when I'm already drowning in the salt waters of self-pity.

The bottle of white liquor I'm clutching makes a swishing sound as I continue wandering. It seems that my feet had made the decision of where to go before my mind could catch up, because I find myself at Peeta's house. _Why am I here? Maybe I shouldn't have drank that bottle of liquor. Wait, I still have some sloshing around in my hand. Maybe I should finish it before I see Peeta. Or perhaps I should offer him some. He would want some if he is just as messed up as I am. Who am I kidding? He probably went to see his family, like I should be doing. Maybe he isn't even home..._

A pattern of dew blooms along the door frame. It looks, I imagine, as if someone painted stars or flowers at exactly the right time; a momentary capture of beauty that will soon vanish.

I don't bother knocking at the door. There is no privacy in our lives, not ever since the whole star-crossed lovers facade began, not since before the cameras invaded our space. Instead, I push open the door and peak my head in.

Peeta's house is warm and safe. I am drawn by the sense of security. Stepping into his home, I close the door behind me, locking the chilly air outside.

Despite the temperature, I am taken aback by how cold his home feels. Our houses look almost identical; large rooms, high ceilings, fancy capitol carpets. But his house doesn't feel like a home. As I wander through the rooms, I notice everything is neat and clean. There are no portraits of smiling family members hanging on the walls. The only decoration is a single painting of a flower. Other than the pans and ingredients that clutter the kitchen counter, there are no signs of the kind-hearted boy who lives here. There is only cold, capitol furniture in a lonely house.

If I wasn't so fuzzy, I might feel a sting of sorrow at the thought of Peeta suffering here alone. I have Prim and my mother to keep my company. But instead of sadness, I feel numb. Probably just the liquor.

I turn back to look at the painting that hangs by the staircase. The flower looks like an orange button, laced with beautiful, frilly petals. I feel as if I could reach out and pluck it from its frame. I wonder if Peeta painted it. I can imagine his hand creating petals that look so fragile, a gust of wind could destroy it...

I'm just about to reach out and touch it, to see if it will fall apart. But before I can continue my invasion of his house, Peeta appears at the bottom of the stairs.

"Katniss?"

I take the opportunity to examine his appearance. A baggy white shirt covers his upper body, with blue and yellow paint stains smeared across the front. I wonder if he had been painting before I interrupted. But his gentle blue orbs hold a look of pure exhaustion, and his ashy blonde hair is sticking up at strange angles. If I didn't know any better, I would say that he had been having a nightmare. But I doubt he would have given into sleep, knowing that the nightmares would be waiting for him to close his eyes.

"Katniss?" Peeta calls again, his voice a rasp of concern. Cautiously, he walks towards me, much like I would approach a wounded animal. Usually, this would aggravate me. But at the moment I just want him to hold me and keep me safe, like he did during the victory tour.

Peeta opens his arms, leaving the decision up to me. As if he expects me to refuse his comfort. Soon, I am clinging to him with my empty hand, enveloped in his warmth. I bury my head in his shoulder, taking in deep breaths. He smells of cinnamon, of dill. It's a strangely intoxicating scent. We stay like that for a long time, clutching onto each other as if letting go would mean our own deaths. Which in a way, it does. Because once we let go, we will have to face the fact that we are returning to hell. And I would much rather stay in his arms.

It is forever and too soon when Peeta pulls away from our embrace. He takes a step back.

"You smell like Haymitch," He says, his eyes searching for an explanation. I guess he deserves one, but I am annoyed that he broke our hug to say something so unimportant when I could have stayed buried in his warmth.

I raise the bottle I've been holding, gesturing to the cloudy white liquid inside. The liquor swishes up and drips down my hand, but I couldn't care less.

"I thought I'd have a drink with him. You know, before two of us go back into the arena to get slaughtered." My words are meant to sting. But my tongue is so heavy, it's hard to get the words out, and the result sounds slurred. Instead of recoiling, Peeta carefully takes the bottle out of my grasp and places it on the counter before I can do something stupid, like throw it.

"Is that also why you aren't wearing any shoes?" I look down at my soaked socks. Because of me, there are wet footprints everywhere I went in his house, forming a scattered trail. I would laugh at my stupidity if he didn't sound so concerned. Even when he has his own problems, the boy with the bread still worries about me. It's irritating.

"I can take care of myself, Peeta." He gives me a pointed look, and it occurs to me that my response would probably be more meaningful if he hadn't found me wandering around his living room , it feels good to let my anger out, even if I don't really remember why my blood is boiling.

"I care because however it goes down, two of us are returning home from the capitol. One mentor and one victor." He talks softly, but with purpose. His words leave no room for compromise. "We can't afford another drunkard on our team, Katniss. Especially not you."

Ugh. I can't stand his self-righteousness. Haymitch and I. That's who he plans on coming home. Haymitch told me that Peeta had already come to him, begging for my life. Peeta claimed that I should live, but he's wrong. Why can't he see that if anyone survives, it should be him?

Haymitch is right; I will never deserve selfless Peeta. I hate myself for not being able to prevent what is to come. And I hate Peeta for proving once again that he is too good to love me.

The silence stretches on. I stare at the painting, trying to remember what kind of flower it is. After a while, he sighs and runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

"What do you want, Katniss? Why are you here?"

I glance into his eyes, considering what he asked. Those are very good questions. Why am I here, when I should be at home with my family? What could I possibly want from Peeta at this time of night?

My head is spinning from the drink, and I can't focus on a proper answer. I blurt out words before I can really think it through.

"I want to sleep with you. Isn't that what you've wanted?"

Peeta is speechless. For once, he doesn't know how to respond. I watch as an assortment of emotions dance across his features, not quite being able to identify which ones. Pain? Shock? Disgust? I wouldn't blame him.

I took it too far. My words came out wrong, slurred with sarcasm, implying something I didn't mean. I came here for the comfort that he had provided all those nights on the train. Sleep, Nothing more. But that's not how it sounded. It sounded like I accused Peeta of wanting to have sex with me. I am heartless, suggesting that's all Peeta wants. I should be burning with shame.

But I'm not. The thought of me asking Peeta to have sex... it's crazy. I've never had time to think about things like that. I never wanted to, and even if I did, I've had plenty of opportunities since the games ended. And now here I am, telling Peeta I want to sleep with him, when I don't. Do I? It doesn't really matter, I'm going to die soon anyway. I wonder if Peeta thinks about us in that way...

I can't help it. I let out a nervous giggle, which turns into a full blown laughing fit. In a world where children are slaughtering each other for peoples entertainment so they can save their own lives, I am thinking about whether Peeta Mellark wants to have sex with me. I'm truly pathetic.

"Katniss, you're drunk. I need to take you home."

But I'm not finished yet.

"I mean, we're all gonna die soon anyways. Don't I owe you this?" Then I turn and press my lips against his, hard. He immediately jerks away. I let out another round of giggles, waiting for Peeta to find his words. I don't have to wait long.

"You're a cruel drunk, Katniss." Peeta's words momentarily break me out of my hysterics. He snatches his coat off of its hook, and then drapes it around my shoulders. "Put that on. I'm taking you home." s.

Why isn't he laughing? Why can't he see how funny our pathetic lives are?

"Peeta-"

"You really think I wanted any of this?" He snaps, his endless stream of patience running out. "Do you think I'm happy you have to pretend to love me? Do you actually believe that I wanted you to show up and ask me to sleep with you, cause you're too drunk to think? Sometimes I think it would have been better if I-" He pauses, attempting to take a deep breath. When he speaks again his voice is empty. "I don't want you to be with me because you think you're going to die soon anyways. I never wanted any of this, Katniss." I watch as he grabs his shoes and pulls them on, double knotting the laces. He refuses to look at me. "Let's go. Prim and your mother are probably worried sick."

The thought of Prim and my mother catches my attention, and I stop laughing. You wouldn't think that you could forget the tragedies in life but sometimes you can- for a little while. I've never been able to decide if I think it's a good thing or a bad thing. Forgetting lets you live without the pain for a moment but remembering hits hard.

"No. I can't face them yet. Please, I can't."

He ignores my drunken pleads. We make it about two steps outside before I stumble on my own shoeless feet. When he picks me up, I'm too worn-out to protest. Instead, I melt into his strong arms and pretend that we become one person. He ends up half carrying, half dragging me across his lawn while I bury my head in the coat he gave me. For a little while, I lose myself in his uneven footsteps, vaguely aware that I'll regret it all tomorrow.

I barely get inside my house before my knees give out and Peeta has to hold me up. As the alcohol overcomes my mind, I decide that tonight I will allow myself to forget. I will live without the pain until I wake up, and then I will embrace the horrors yet to come. I will go to the arena and wait for death to take me so that Peeta can live.


End file.
